Divine Intervention
by SerendipityDreamer
Summary: On September 23, 2000, Sherlock Holmes and Rebecca Walker were married. In 2002, Hamish Holmes was born to two loving parents. In 2005, the flat at 221B Baker Street became a home. On December 4, 2007, Hamish Holmes lost his mother and Sherlock Holmes lost his wife. On December 7, 2007, Hamish Holmes decided he would find someone to make his father happy.
1. Chapter 1

Hamish Holmes was very young when his mother died, but her memory is very much alive in his mind. He remembers how she would tell horrible puns that made everyone laugh, even Dad. He remembers how infectious her smile was and how her laugh bubbled up slowly before erupting in a burst of joy. He remembers sitting on the floor and listening to his mother and father create beautiful music, the room filled with a harmonious melody of a violin and a piano. He remembers how angry his mother would get when Sherlock wouldn't clean up his experiments, but then she would give a world weary sigh and hold Hamish close to whisper softly in his hair, "I fell in love with a stupid genius. But oh, he's still wonderful."

There are many things Hamish remembers about his mother, but what he remembers most vividly was his father's heartbreak.

Sherlock Holmes was not a man of great emotion; there were no grand declarations of love nor were there heartbreaking sob stories about minute tragedies throughout the day. Yes, things were often blown far out of proportion (a drama queen is a drama queen), but Sherlock was never a man who liked his emotions put on display. Therefore, his eventual marriage to Hamish's mother was a surprise to everyone who knew the hard-hearted man. In the public eye, Sherlock Holmes was still Sherlock Holmes, but in the privacy of 221B, Sherlock Holmes could be gentle, caring, and utterly human.

There's a picture on the mantle of Sherlock on his wedding day. He's standing alone in a well-cut suit and his cold and calculating eyes are staring directly into the lens. The picture next to it is of Sherlock's young bride, Rebecca. Her brown hair is loose and slightly wavy, illuminated by the wedding veil perched on her head; and her dress is simple and elegant, adorned with a striking blue sash. Her eyes are not focused on the camera, but instead staring off into the distance and perhaps to some wonderful future. Her smile says that that future is as wonderful as it looks.

The third picture is placed artfully between the other two. Sherlock's hair has fallen in front of his eyes, but his gaze is certainly fixed on his laughing bride. He's hugging her tightly from behind, perhaps whispering some horrible joke in her ear, and she's smiling and laughing as she tries to keep her veil from tipping over. The portrait is candid, and it is the culmination of two strong souls being truly happy.

Hamish wasn't even in school when his mother became very sick. He remembers sitting down in Sherlock's lap facing his mum, and he remembers crying when she said she had cancer. Hamish couldn't quite grasp the gravity of the situation, but he knew it was bad.

As his mother underwent chemotherapy, her smile faltered. She didn't laugh as loudly and she couldn't move so quickly. The immense pain caused her to take medication every six hours, leaving her listless. She stopped playing the piano, so Father's violin pieces sounded oddly lonely. Hamish remembered his father tucking him into bed when his mother was too tired, and Hamish would have to sing his own lullabies and tell himself his own stories.

On December 4, 2007, 21 days before Christmas, 221B Baker Street stopped feeling like home.

The night after his mother's funeral and burial, Hamish couldn't sleep. He didn't want to tell himself another story or sing himself another lullaby, but his father...his father barely looked at him tonight. Slowly, Hamish slid out of his bed and tiptoed across his room, slipping into the hallway silently. He carefully avoided all of the creaks in the floorboards and made his way to the kitchen, aiming to pour himself a glass of water and return to bed.

Hamish didn't see his father at first, because the flat was still shrouded in darkness. When the clouds shifted outside and allowed the moon to illuminate the night, Hamish tensed at the sight of his father curled up on the couch. Hamish had known he shouldn't see him like this, that his father doesn't _want_ to be seen like this, but Hamish can't look away. He noticed the center picture is missing from the mantle, the candid shot of his mother and father that everyone loved so much. Hamish then saw the picture clutched in his father's hand, and he saw his father's body trembling and his face stained with tears.

Hamish abandoned his mission and returned to his room to tuck himself back into bed. It was that night that Hamish Holmes decided he would find someone who loved his Dad just like his mother had, because Hamish couldn't bear to see his father cry again. He would find someone to make his dad happy again.


	2. Chapter 2

Exactly six hours after Hamish went back to bed, Sherlock Holmes decided he would never cry again. His solution to said problem is to lock away his heart.

At 8:00 A.M., Sherlock removed two pictures along with their frames from the mantle, which had grown pleasantly warm from the roasting fire which had been lit an hour before, and put them in a cardboard box. At 8:05, Sherlock began to collect any stray reminders of his now dead wife and put them into the box as well. By 8:15, the box has been filled with jewelry, a hairbrush, perfume, photographs, and sticky notes with lovingly written reminders. At 8:20, Sherlock shoved the box high up into the closet, hidden where dust builds and spiders crawl. Her clothing is next, and it all goes into another much larger box, which is once more shoved into the closet to collect dust and draw moths.

Sherlock shut the closet door, which resides in an odd little corner between his bedroom and Hamish's. It's filled with linens and other odd household items that hold no true meaning for Sherlock. It's perfect.

There is, however, one final knot Sherlock has yet to tie up. He moved quickly and with purpose to the living room, where in a gorgeous silver frame is a lovely candid picture of a very happy couple.

Sherlock removed the picture from its frame and pressed a gentle kiss to the woman's face before he tossed it into the flames. The picture ignited at the edges, turning charcoal black as the happy faces begin to warp and melt in the heat. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. Till death did them part.

In the span of half an hour, Sherlock Holmes had locked his heart and thrown away the key.

* * *

><p>Hamish woke at 9:00 A.M. with all traces of his mother gone, save for the piano standing in the corner of the flat, now covered in a thin coat of dust.<p>

His father was nowhere in sight, so Hamish decided to make his own breakfast. He plugged in the toaster, opened the new loaf of bread on the counter, and smiled softly at the fresh smell. Mrs. Hudson had been buying groceries for the Holmes' ever since Rebecca had been diagnosed. Sherlock couldn't even be trusted to buy milk, let alone buy enough food for Hamish and himself, so Mrs. Hudson volunteered for the job.

Hamish slid the slices into the toaster and pushed the lever down; as he waited, he walked towards the living room. He moved first to where he saw his father crying, feeling the seat. It's gone cold, which meant his father had not been sitting there for a long time. Hamish glanced around the room to look for any other evidence, and his eyes finally settled on the nearly bare mantle.

Hamish frowned as he walked towards the mantle, wondering where his father could have hidden the photographs, but his eyes wandered to the smoldering ashes in the fireplace. Hamish bent at his knees and scanned the hearth with narrow eyes, carefully plucking a small charcoal colored corner of paper from the ashes.

As the toast popped out of the toaster, it clicked in Hamish's brain that his father never planned to love again.

Too bad for Sherlock that Holmes men are stubborn, and Hamish has just enough Holmes in him to make sure his father finds someone to make him happy again.

Around noon, Sherlock returned to the flat to find his son curled up in the corner next to the piano with his fist clenched in his soft blue sweater. At the sound of the door clicking shut, Hamish looked at his father with anger in his bloodshot eyes and spoke barely above a whisper, "Why did you burn her?"

Sherlock pressed his lips into a thin line before moving towards the kitchen, focusing instead on the mess of crumbs Hamish had left on the counter from his toast, "You know Mrs. Hudson would never approve of such a mess."

Like a hurricane brewing, Hamish slowly rose to his feet with his fists clenched tightly and his face smeared with snot and tears, "You burned all of the pictures. Why?"

Sherlock sighed but didn't look at his son; he looked too much like her. Sherlock spoke slowly, his voice monotone, "I only burned one, and it was an accident."

"Liar," Hamish muttered, stalking towards his father with as much hot-blooded rage as a five-year old could muster, "You did it on purpose."

Sherlock frowned and closed his eyes, "Hamish, you don't-"

"I miss her, too."

Sherlock tensed and clenched his fist at his son's words, but remained silent. No, he could never allow himself to cry in front of his son, in front of anyone really.

Hamish, whose rage had begun to simmer with the arrival of fat tears in his eyes, spoke in broken blubbers, "I cried and cried when she died, but I always got to look at that picture and remember her, but now you took it away," Hamish stomped his foot on the ground and swung at his father, hitting him in the thigh, "You burned her!"

Sherlock reached down and scooped Hamish up into his arms, tossing the wailing boy over his shoulder and ignoring the tiny fists pounding into his back and the trails of snot being wiped onto his shoulder. Sherlock moved quickly, opening the door to Hamish's room and setting his son on his bed. He avoided his son's attempts to grab at him and shut the door, holding the doorknob tightly as he heard his son shout, "I hate you!"

In a fit of anger, Hamish pushed over his toy chest, but in a wave of sadness he immediately picked it back up. Hamish let his body be shaken by sobs and wiped his nose on his sleeve, and he wished that his Mum was here to hold him and give him tissues and tell him that Dad was a stupid genius and that they could all go and get ice cream in Regent's Park like they used to.

At some point, Hamish fell asleep curled up on the floor, and at another point, Sherlock slipped the solo candid portrait of his wife under Hamish's door.

That was the last time Hamish and Sherlock had ever so openly spoken of her.


	3. Chapter 3

"You should consider putting him into a proper school."

"I'm perfectly capable of carrying out Hamish's education."

"Of course you are, love. I'm just concerned he won't...develop."

Sherlock Holmes stood at the fireplace mantle, toying with the skull which now fills the spot of the burned picture. Mrs. Holmes sat on the couch across the room, her hands folded in her lap and her brow scrunching in concern.

Sherlock's parents had arrived at Baker Street an hour earlier, and it was their first visit since Rebecca's funeral. Being five days before Christmas, Mrs. Hudson had put up a small plastic tree in the flat, in an effort to get the boys in 221B into the holiday spirit. Sherlock, however, was becoming antisocial, and Hamish was beginning to follow suit.

Mycroft had grown concerned for his brother and his nephew, but he could not attend to them himself. Therefore, despite being in the middle of diffusing an international crisis in the Middle East, Mycroft arranged for his parents to pay Sherlock and Hamish a visit.

Sherlock should have known something was amiss when his parents showed up at the door unannounced, and he should have protested when his father offered to take Hamish out to buy an early Christmas present.

Now, Sherlock was standing in his flat five days before Christmas on the verge of calling Mycroft, and his mother sat on the couch with pure concern for her son and her grandson.

"I know Rebecca wanted him in public school, but perhaps he could go to Wetherby. Mike gives a donation every quarter, so I'm sure-"

"I don't need Mycroft putting my son through school," Sherlock practically growled, startling his mother, "He'll be fine being home schooled."

Mrs. Holmes pursed her lips and shook her head, "But Rebecca took him out into the world. They went to the park, she had him in a playgroup at the library, and she made sure he focused on his reading. You're always so focused on your work."

"Hamish can read just fine, and I can focus on more than my work," Sherlock huffed, becoming unnerved by his mother's casual use of his wife's name, "He'll be fine."

"He's five years old, Sherlock," Mrs. Holmes pleaded, "He needs to have social interaction."

"Why do you think he has me?" Sherlock quipped, his fuse growing increasingly short.

"I know, but Rebecca-"

"Is dead!" Sherlock shouted, slamming the skull onto the mantle and rushing towards his mother, his eyes wild, "You talk about her like she's still here, like she still matters!"

Mrs. Holmes tensed as she watches her son fly into a fit of rage, but she kept her voice even, having seen such fits before, "Because she is...was Hamish's mother, and she was your wife."

"And she's dead," Sherlock replied, forcing himself to calm down and chastising himself for flying off the handle, "There's no reason to mention her."

"Is that why you took down the photos then?" Mrs. Holmes asked, "Are you trying to just erase her? Because that's not right to do to Hamish...or to yourself."

Sherlock didn't answer, but he allowed himself to stare at the mantle when his mother gestureed towards it, "Hamish will be home schooled until I see fit."

Mrs. Holmes nodded, knowing she wouldn't get an answer from her son, "All right, but please, Sherlock, consider putting him into a proper school. You might not realize it, but he needs it."

Sherlock hummed and glanced at the window, moving towards it watching as a cab pulled up in front of the flat and seeing his father and Hamish step out. He clicked his tongue as he saw Hamish clutching a box of Legos to his chest, and he muttered softly, "He loves those damned toy bricks. Useless."

Mrs. Holmes frowned at her son's words, standing and going to open the door, "Let him be a boy, Sherlock. That's all I ask."

As Hamish bounded up the stairs to proudly show off his new Legos to his father, Mr. Holmes walked up to his wife and whispered in her ear, concern furrowing his brow. Sherlock smiled briefly at Hamish before watching with narrow eyes at his parents conversing in hushed tones. Hamish frowned and glanced nervously between his father and his grandparents, believing he was the reason for whatever was going on.

* * *

><p>The night before Christmas Eve, Hamish was sitting on his bed clutching the picture of his mother tightly in his hands. In the weeks since the picture was slipped beneath his door, Hamish had studied it very night before he goes to bed, fearful that if he didn't, he would forget what she looked like. Hamish tensed as he heard his father walking towards his room, and he quickly stuffed the photograph back into his pillowcase.<p>

Sherlock entered Hamish's room with a small sigh, moving to stand over his son, "You're usually asleep by now. What's wrong?"

Hamish shrugged, pulling down his sheets and covering his legs, "I dunno. Stuff."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and perched himself on the edge of the bed, pulling the sheets up to Hamish's chest, "You enjoy going to visit Gran and Gramps. Why is this visit bothering you?"

Hamish frowned, knowing his father could see right through him, and hating it, "It's nothing."

"It's never nothing," Sherlock quipped, combing a hand through Hamish's hair before standing.

"Fine," Hamish huffed, nestling closer into his cocoon of sheets, "It's _nothing _I want you to know about."

Sherlock opened his mouth to respond, taken back by his son's remark, but quickly shut it. He stepped back across the room, moving to close the door, "Goodnight, Hamish."

The door closed, leaving Hamish to his thoughts and Sherlock to his own. Holmes men should never be left to their own thoughts; they notoriously overthink everything.

* * *

><p>The day began at 9:00 A.M., when Hamish stumbled sleepily from his room to find the kitchen a complete and utter mess. His father sat in the middle of it with his lab goggles hanging around his neck and a look of pure annoyance of his face.<p>

"Dad?"

"Experiment," Sherlock mumbled, "Reactive properties of human fingers in corrosive acid at varying temperatures."

"Eww," Hamish replied, scrunching his nose, "How did it explode?"

Sherlock shrugged and glanced around the kitchen, looking as if he didn't know how he got here, "Mixture of unstable chemicals. Accidental, of course. Mrs. Hudson will be livid."

Hamish smiled softly and scratched at his head, his stomach growling softly, "I guess I'm going to her for breakfast, huh?"

Sherlock nodded and worked the goggles over his head, tossing them into the sink and beginning to clean the countertops, "Bring back some biscuits. She usually bakes enough to share. It is Christmas Eve after all." Sherlock says the last part with a tone of bitterness, and Hamish picks up in it.

"You used to like Christmas, Dad," Hamish replied, a slight frown on his face.

Sherlock glanced at his son, his eyes hard, "It's different now."

Hamish bit his lip and turned away, leaving the flat quickly and shutting the door behind him. Of course it was different. Christmas was only enjoyable when there were three people living in 221B.

"Do you want milk, dear?"

"Yes, please. Thank you."

Hamish watched as Mrs. Hudson filled his glass with milk while he cut the pancakes on his plate into bite size pieces. He kicked his legs back and forth beneath the table, a small smile on his face as he dipped a piece of pancake into maple syrup before putting it into his mouth.

Mrs. Hudson smiled as she watched Hamish eat, her heart aching for the boy. She hadn't been able to talk to Sherlock about Rebecca's death because the man absolutely refused to mention her. Mrs. Hudson had watched "her boys" suffer silently over the past few weeks, and Mrs. Hudson simply knew that Sherlock was suffering more than he let on, and that Hamish was virtually alone.

"How's your father, Ham?" Mrs. Hudson asked nonchalantly, moving to set the milk back in the fridge.

"Blew up the kitchen again," Hamish hummed, using one hand to push his hair out of his eyes, "I'm glad you made pancakes."

Mrs. Hudson sighed and shook her head, "I just knew something would happen. Your father would never let Christmas just be Christmas," she straightened up and moved toward the sink, cleaning the dishes she had used earlier, "Don't you ever be like that."

Hamish smiled as he ate, but as he stabbed his next piece of pancake, he paused and frowned, "He didn't used to be like this...all angry. It's just been since...y'know," he trailed off, his brow furrowing.

Mrs. Hudson sighed and dried her hands on a dish towel, moving towards Hamish and wrapping an arm around him, "It's all right, love. I know."

Hamish nodded and resumed eating. He glanced up from his plate when Mrs. Hudson moved back to the sink, and he watched her as she puttered around the kitchen. Hamish couldn't help but remember how his mother used to do the same.

* * *

><p>About an hour and a half later, Sherlock and Hamish were sitting silently in the back of cab, respectively staring out of their own windows. Their overnight bags were cozily stored in the boot, and a small collection of Christmas gifts sat in the space between them. Sherlock and Hamish had grown increasingly distant over the past few weeks, and the onset of Christmas had made things even worse. When their family was still whole, Sherlock and his wife took Hamish out to see Santa Claus, and they would sit together in Speedy's, drink hot chocolate, and write Hamish's Christmas list. They could stay there for hours, laughing and making merry, Sherlock practically glowing as he watched his wife and son sing along with the Christmas carols over the radio. Then they would mail Hamish's letter and go home to set about to make cookies for Santa, which always ended with Rebecca chastising Sherlock for forgetting to buy milk for the jolly old man, "You simply can't leave Santa cookies without milk. The man needs to have a clear throat to call out to his reindeer."<p>

Sherlock glanced towards his son, sighing inwardly. It was different now, and it would never be the same again.

He cleared his throat and smiled weakly as Hamish turned to him, "Are you excited then? For Christmas?"

Hamish shrugged, "I guess so."

"Did you write your list for Santa?" Sherlock asked, digging his fingernails into his palm as he spoke. He didn't like letting his son believe in such a foolish Christmas tale, but ignorance is bliss.

Hamish nodded, but bit his lip, "I don't wanna mail it."

Sherlock pursed his lips, raising an eyebrow, "Do you want to mail it when we get to Gran and Gramps? You always-"

"I'm sure," Hamish cut in, looking increasingly nervous, "I just...it's silly. It's not like Santa can give me everything, right?"

Sherlock watched as his son turned away, looking out the window once more. Sherlock sighed, hating that he felt so helpless, and merely contented himself with reaching out and running a hand through his boy's hair.

* * *

><p>"Hamish, don't you like turkey?"<p>

"I do, Gran. I'm just not very hungry."

Hamish sat with his ankles crossed beneath the dining room table, poking at that turkey on his plate with his fork. Sherlock, sitting across from his him, picked at the glob of sweet potatoes on his plate. Sherlock's parents sat at the opposite heads of the table, their plates already half empty. The table, adorned with a festive red and green cloth, is strewn with steaming bowls of vegetables, a golden brown turkey, and a small tender ham.

Mycroft, unfortunately, was still in tangles in the Middle East, so it wasn't a true family Christmas. And anyone who had been to the funeral a few weeks ago would know that even if Mycroft was there, the Holmes family would still be missing a rather important member.

Mr. Holmes cleared his throat before glancing at his son, reaching over and cutting a thin slice of ham, "So, Sherlock, how are your cases going?"

"Remember your cholesterol, love," Mrs. Holmes scolded, pointing her fork at her husband, "You have the doctor next week."

"Slow season," Sherlock replied, ignoring his mother and not making eye contact, "Criminals have some code of honor, it seems."

Mr. Holmes rolled his eyes at his wife's comment but nodded towards his son. He set the ham slice onto his plate before turning to Hamish, "And what about you? Are you excited for Santa tomorrow?"

Hamish shrugged, a common response now, before setting his fork down, "I dunno. May I be excused?"

"Why you've barely eaten," Mrs. Holmes cut in, frowning, "You need to eat at least half of that."

"But I don't want to," Hamish replied, crossing his arms, "I want to play with the Legos that Gramps got me."

"Listen to your Gran, Hamish," Mr. Holmes sighed, "And she's right. You need to eat."

"But Dad doesn't," Hamish whined, "So why do I have to?"

"Because you're still a boy," Mrs. Holmes replied, cutting into her slice of turkey, "Eat. It's final."

"Go play with your blocks," Sherlock said suddenly, picking up a forkful of peas, "It's fine."

Hamish beamed at his father and bolted from the table, running towards his room where the Legos lay strewn on the floor. Mr. Holmes watched his grandson leave, and Mrs. Holmes dropped her utensils and stared daggers at her younger son.

Sherlock met her gaze and slowly set down his fork, "He's _my_ son."

"Rebecca would have never allowed that. And if it had been her saying what I said, you would have agreed with her."

Sherlock pushed his chair back from the table and rose to his feet, "You're not his mother, and neither is she. Not anymore."

"Perhaps if you started acting like a _father-_"

"I _am,_" Sherlock hissed before storming away from the table, leaving Mr. and Mrs. Holmes to finish their meal alone.

Mrs. Holmes frowned and worried her hands beneath the table, "I worry about them so much. It's just not healthy what they're doing."

Mr. Holmes smiled wistfully and set down his utensils, standing and walking to the other side of the table and wrapping her in a tender embrace, "They've got your smarts, right? They'll work it out, love. We've just got to nudge them along."

* * *

><p>Mycroft let out a slow breath as his car pulled up to his childhood home. He bade a fond farewell and a Merry Christmas to his driver before stepping out of the car. He didn't need luggage, as he would be leaving in the morning, and his parents kept clothes for both him and Sherlock in case they ever need to stay the night. Mycroft checked his watch as he made his way to the door, frowning as he saw it was nearly midnight.<p>

Mycroft unlocked the door and did his best to stay quiet, but he gave up all hope for that when he saw his brother perched on the couch with his hands pressed together in concentration. As the door clicked shut, Sherlock's hands parted and the brothers' gazes meet.

Sherlock scowled, sitting up, "I was hoping you wouldn't arrive until after I left. Or at the very least, tomorrow morning."

"Is it so bad I wanted to surprise my family by coming home early?" Mycroft replied haughtily, taking off his jacket and hanging it up, "Really, Sherlock, have a little holiday spirit."

"You hate it too," Sherlock huffed, crossing his arms "All of the mindless merchandising and the uncontrollable toddlers, sniveling for the latest and greatest toy, along with the ceaseless chanting of Christmas carols. November is hardly over when Christmas time begins."

"I might recall that last year you rather enjoyed all of that drivel, or at least you tried to," Mycroft replied, arching an eyebrow.

Sherlock tensed and looked away, his voice flat, "And I might recall that you rather enjoyed Mummy's Christmas feast last year. I must say, you've lost the weight rather well."

Mycroft hummed and walked towards his brother, glancing down at him before walking down the hallway, speaking over his shoulder, "You can bury the body, Sherlock, but you can't bury the memory."

"We'll see," Sherlock replied coldly, rising to his feet and going upstairs to his old room, deciding that perhaps sleep was a more attractive option than speaking to his brother.

* * *

><p>After stepping into his parents room for a quick hello (he meant for it to be quick, but Mummy was always asking questions), Mycroft crept back down the hall and into Hamish's room, pressing his lips together when he saw his nephew sleeping. He had been hoping he would arrive before Hamish's bedtime, as the boy kept odd hours like his father, but the trip and the day's rather uncomfortable events must have tired him out. Mycroft moved slowly towards him, pulling up the boy's covers to his chin, and smiled softly.<p>

Mycroft wished he was able to visit his nephew more often. Where Sherlock had cursed his brother's presence, Rebecca had welcomed him with open arms. She was charming and respectful and wasn't afraid to argue with Mycroft if his tone became too judgemental. Sherlock had absolutely deserved her; but he never deserved to lose her, not the way he did.

Mycroft turned to leave and perhaps seek out some rest of his own, when his eyes fell to Hamish's suitcase in the corner of the room. He spied an envelope sticking out, with bright red letters written in a child's tell tale scrawl, and Mycroft allowed his curiosity to get the better of him. He grabbed the letter and smirked as he read _Mr. Santa Claus: North Pole. _He did his best to silently open the envelope, his face slowly changing as he read the letter:

_Dear Santa,_

_This year, I think I've been pretty good. I used to always get really mad at my dad, but I've been a lot better lately. Sometimes I forget that he gets really moody, b̶u̶t̶ ̶m̶u̶m̶ ̶a̶l̶w̶a̶y̶s̶ ̶r̶e̶m̶i̶n̶d̶s̶ ̶m̶e̶. I know I'm so lucky to have t̶h̶e̶m̶,̶ ̶a̶n̶d̶ ̶t̶h̶e̶y̶'̶r̶e̶ ̶t̶h̶e̶ ̶b̶e̶s̶t̶ ̶C̶h̶r̶i̶s̶t̶m̶a̶s̶ ̶g̶i̶f̶t̶ ̶I̶ ̶c̶o̶u̶l̶d̶ ̶e̶v̶e̶r̶ ̶h̶a̶v̶e̶.̶ If you're going to bring me something, I would only like these things:_

_Legos!_

_A new journal_

_Maybe my own camera?_

_m̶y̶ ̶m̶o̶m̶ ̶t̶o̶ ̶c̶o̶m̶e̶ ̶b̶a̶c̶k̶_

_Thanks, _

_Hamish Holmes_

_P.S. Ignore the cross outs. They're not important._

Mycroft frowned, because he knew that everything his nephew had crossed out was rather incredibly important.

He returned the letter to its envelope and put it back in its proper place before creeping back out of the room and shutting the door behind him. Mycroft, for perhaps the second time in his life, wasn't sure what to do.


	4. Chapter 4

At 10:00 A.M., the day after Christmas, a cab was sitting outside with Hamish slumping over sleepily in the back seat and a small bounty of presents in the boot. Sherlock was in his parents room, rushing as he shoved the remaining clothes back into the bags he and Hamish had brought with them. Mrs. Holmes stood in the doorway, her arms crossed in front of her and worry furrowing her brow.

"I don't understand why you're leaving so soon, Sherlock. I haven't seen you or Hamish in ages," Mrs. Holmes set her arms angrily at her sides, "You can't go speeding off after only two days. I want to see my son and my grandson more than just a few times a year."

"I've got an arrangement with the Detective Inspector and with a pathologist down at St. Bart's to do some vital research for a case," Sherlock replied quickly, "And besides, you know I keep a busy schedule. Additionally, you've already given Hamish his presents. He'll be sure to remember you."

Mrs. Holmes sighed, "That's not the point, Sherlock. I only-"

"I'll be here for New Years," Sherlock hummed, zipping the bags and shouldering them as he kissed his mother on the cheek, "Promise."

Mrs. Holmes rolled her eyes and grabbed Sherlock's arm as he tried to slip past her, "I know you're keeping busy, but please, look after Hamish. Promise me that."

Sherlock huffed, "Mother, the cab-"

"Promise me," Mrs. Holmes repeated, her eyes narrowed.

Sherlock paused before kissing his mother on the cheek once more, "Fine. I promise."

With a quick farewell to his father, Sherlock rushed out the door and into the cab, giving the address to the cabbie and beginning the journey back to Baker Street. Mr. and Mrs. Holmes watched the cab drive off, worry settled deep in their hearts.

* * *

><p>"I'm not crazy, right? Lots of people talk to themselves when they're alone. I am normal, plain and simple. God, I sound like a loon right now."<p>

Molly Hooper was leaning against the counter in the kitchen of her flat, holding a mug of tea in her hands and seemingly talking to the muted television across the room. The news was on, and some insane man was running naked through London and somehow evading the police. It was a slow news day, apparently.

"Well, I mean, I'm normal in the sense of 'not going to kill someone for kicks.' But, I've seen dead bodies, is that normal? I mean, it's a job isn't it? Plausible...pays well...oh Molly, get a hold of yourself."

The young pathologist shook her head, looking thoughtful as she took a sip of her tea. Molly didn't talk to herself very often, but it had become a habit as of late. She was alone rather often now, her only communication occurring at work, and 50% of that communication involved horrendous and hurtful and utterly gorgeous Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock Holmes, the man who lost his wife, the man who had to single-handedly raise his son, the man who refused any help whatsoever.

Molly sighed and set her mug down, reaching for her phone and firing off a quick text:

_Belated Merry Christmas :)_

_Not very merry. SH_

_You're supposed to say it back, even if it is belated. :(_

_I don't abide by such social construct. SH_

Molly set her phone back down with a frown, whispering softly, "He's horrible. An absolute arse. Social construct...bullshit."

She walked towards the television, lifting a picture off the top of it. She lovingly ran her fingers along the smooth wooden frame, then over the young face next to her own; two women almost identical, one mousy and the other bubbly. Molly sighed and bit her lip, tracing the loose and wavy hair of the other woman, "God, Becca, he's so lost without you. So am I."

On one side of London, Sherlock Holmes couldn't talk about the woman he lost. On the other side of London, Molly Hooper couldn't stop talking to her.

* * *

><p>"Who're you texting?" Hamish asked, looking up from the string he was pulling on his jacket. The boy was nearly silent for the cab ride, still sleepy from the events the night before.<p>

"Molly," Sherlock replied coolly, closing his phone and pocketing it, "She says Merry Christmas. Belated, of course."

Hamish smiled to himself and returned to the string, his voice soft as his fingers twirled, "I miss Auntie Molly. I haven't seen her in awhile."

Sherlock nodded, glancing at his son, "Would you like to come with me to Bart's? I'm sure she'd mind you while I do my research."

Hamish nodded, "Mhm, I'd like that." His eyes drooped slightly, his hands falling to his lap.

"Still tired?" Sherlock hummed, reaching out and combing his hand through his son's hair.

Hamish, incredibly knackered and craving warmth, leaned against his father and buried his face in his chest, "I miss home. I wanna go back."

Sherlock hummed in agreement, wrapping his arm around his son and pulling him close, "I know."

It was the closest they had come to talking about Rebecca since that fateful night weeks ago.

* * *

><p>After unpacking at Baker Street, Sherlock and Hamish took another cab to St. Barts. Sherlock sent Hamish down to pathology while the genius himself went off to a separate lab. Hamish bit his lip as he walked down the empty hallways with busily silent people rushing by. A few of them looked at Hamish, and he smiled when they smiled back. They all knew him of course, Holmes's boy. Far sweeter than his father, by a long shot. But when they smiled at him, Hamish wasn't blind to the subtle sadness behind their eyes. He knew they felt sorry for him. Hamish hated it.<p>

When he got to Molly's section of the hospital, he peeked in the doorway and knocked softly on the doorframe, smiling as he saw Molly pop up her head from her work. He always liked how Molly became so focused, yet even a knock on the door could spook her. It reminded him of his mum.

"Ham!" Molly cheered, quickly covering the body she was working with and turning to the young boy, "Your dad didn't stop by yet. Did he send you as his charge?"

Hamish shook his head and stepped further into the room, "No, he's doing other stuff, I don't know what. He sent me here."

Molly chuckled and rolled her eyes, moving to wash her hands, "I'd tell him I'm not your babysitter, but I like you too much. There's a chair in the corner, pop a squat."

"Watcha workin' on?" Hamish asked, slowly walking over to the chair and sitting down.

"That man was in a bad place at a bad time," Molly hummed, "So your dad and I have to find who's responsible for him getting hurt. I find out what happened physically, and he finds out what happened scientifically."

"That's cool," Hamish grinned, bouncing slightly, "Is it a cereal murder? Like Cheerios?"

Molly laughed and shook her head, drying off her hands, "No, serial, like a series. Think Doctor Who, it's a series, meaning there's lots and lots of episodes. So a serial murder is lots and lots of murders."

Hamish nodded, chewing his lip in thought, "Daddy doesn't watch Doctor Who. Mrs. Hudson lets me, but she thinks it's scary."

Molly nodded in agreement, "It can be a little scary. I'm surprised you watch it."

Hamish puffed out his chest, arms straight down at his sides, "I'm a big boy, Mrs. Hudson and Grams and Gramps say so."

"Ooh, sorry big boy," Molly teased walking over and leaning down to tap his nose, "I remember you when you were a baby, you know?"

Hamish nodded and smiled, but it quickly fell and he looked away, "Yeah, I know."

Molly cocked her head and furrowed her brow, "Ham, what is it? Did I say something?"

Hamish shook his head quickly, "No, just...I love you, Auntie Molly. Lots."

Molly sighed and bent at the knees, scooping Hamish up into her arms and squeezing him tightly, "And I love you too, Ham. Lots and lots. Practically the size of the whole world."

Hamish huffed a small laugh in spite of himself, "Nah, that's too big. No one loves anyone that much."

"Says who?" Molly asked, pulling back and acting scandalized, "Are you calling me a liar?"

Hamish cocked his head and pursed his lips, "But you can't love someone the size of the world."

"Course you can," Molly hummed, running her hand through Hamish's hair, "I can list lots of people I love that much."

"Name them," Hamish huffed, crossing his arms, "I bet you can't name three."

Molly smirked, "Well there's you of course, my dad, and well-" she trailed off.

Hamish deflated slightly, sounding bitter, "See?"

"No, no," Molly shook her head, "The third person is your dad, yeah? I love him, too."

Hamish blinked, simply staring at Molly before he whispered, "Do you love him like Mum did?"

Molly blushed furiously, her eyes widening. Damn the Holmes boys for being so keen.

"Am I interrupting something?"

Molly and Hamish both turned to see Sherlock standing in the doorway, a piece of paper gripped in his hand, "I've got what I need to run tests. Are you done with Mr. Taylor's body?"

"Just about," Molly chirped, standing quickly and adjusting her hair uselessly, "Let me just log in a few more notes than he's yours."

As Hamish sat in the chair, watching Molly and his father work, arguing about different aspects of the notes, Hamish decided that yes, you could love people as much as the whole world. He loved Auntie Molly and Mrs. Hudson and Grams and Gramps as much as the whole world. He loved his Mum maybe more than that; he loved his dad and his uncle a little less. Hamish also decided that yes, Molly did love Sherlock like his Mum had. She looked at him the same way, stood next to him the same way, and smiled in the same way his Mum had.

Hamish, remembering his promise from a few weeks ago, believed Molly would be the one to make his father happy again.


	5. Chapter 5

**In a cruel twist of fate, I'm going back to school tomorrow :( I am likely going to be swamped with work in preparation for midterms and a state test, so it might be a bit tricky for me to post the next chapter. I've written a decent chuck of it so far, but I have no idea when I'll have time to polish it and finish it for posting. So bluh.**

**Anywho, this is a very Molly and Sherlock centered chapter. I hope you guys enjoy it, and constructive criticism is always welcome.**

* * *

><p>Molly sat on the floor of 221B on a cloudy Saturday morning with a deck of flashcards in her lap and one clutched in her hands, holding it face out towards Hamish, who was sitting on the floor across from her. After Sherlock had decided to continue homeschooling Hamish, he realized he had no patience whatsoever for anything other than the sciences. Therefore, he employed the help of Molly Hooper, who was rather well versed in all basic subjects. Currently, they were working on reading and sight recognition of words.<p>

Hamish chewed his lip in concentration, his eyes studying the word on the card with scrutiny. He released his lip and let his mouth form the shapes of the sounds he wasn't quite sure how to pronounce.

"C'mon, Ham," Molly cheered, "It starts with 'P.' What sound does that make?"

"Puh," Hamish whispered, his eyes still glued to the word in front of him, "Pih...pill..."

Molly grinned and nodded earnestly,"You've almost got it, love. It's something that's in your room."

Hamish brightened and bounced in place, his face breaking out into a smile, "Pillow! It says pillow!"

"Oh, brilliant boy!" Molly cheered once more, setting the cards aside and pulling Hamish into her lap for a firm hug, "Only five and you're reading like a pro."

"Almost six," Hamish teased, small giggles bubbling up from his chest as Molly held him close. A small part of his mind and his heart likened the embrace to the one's his mother used to give him, but he would never say it out loud. Sherlock would be mad, and Molly would be sad, and Hamish didn't want anyone to feel anything like that.

"Hmm, we'll have to have a party," Molly hummed, resting her chin lightly on Hamish's head, looking off to some distance in thought.

Sherlock, bent over the kitchen table, listened to the entire ordeal with barely contained sarcasm. His son might have been able to read, but by the time Sherlock was six he was already reading at the level of a typical Year 5 student. And why would Molly even mention parties? Hamish didn't need a party, he was a perfectly reasonable boy who could simply get a set of Legos and be happy for the rest of his life. Molly was putting ideas into Hamish's head that would only lead to disappointment.

But on a level Sherlock refused to admit to himself, Molly was also putting ideas into his head. Because seeing Hamish so happy and comfortable in Molly's embrace tugged at his atrophying heart.

As Molly and Hamish pulled apart, Molly walked over to the kitchen and Hamish ran off to get his maths workbook from his room. Sherlock spoke in a low but harsh voice, "It's not impressive. His reading skill is subpar at best, compared to what I was reading at his age."

Molly hummed in acknowledgement, leaning against the counter with her hands folded in front of her, "Hamish is reading perfectly fine for his age. He's improving every week."

"And your tutoring is appreciated," Sherlock replied, "I would just prefer it if you didn't lie to my son."

Molly flushed angrily and stepped forward before she saw Hamish emerge from the hallway, a smile on his face and his maths book in his hand. Without another glance towards Sherlock, Molly plastered on a smile and ushered Hamish back to their seat on the floor, and all resumed as it had before.

* * *

><p>By midday, Molly was walking down the dull white halls of the hospice wing in a hospital, her eyes briefly flicking to the nurses passing to and fro, an understanding nod given each time. Molly had been visiting the hospice her father was living at weekly for the past month, and she knew most of the nurses' names by heart. It hurt to see some of the suffering of the other hospice patients, but she knew she couldn't care for her father on her own, not while she was spending most of her hours working at St. Bart's.<p>

When Molly got to her father's room, she stood in the doorway and simply looked at him. Mr. Hooper was a frail man, his skin was sagging and his hair was wispy white, but his eyes were still rich pools of milk chocolate. His face, however, was set in a somber frown as his eyes stared out of the window across the room. Molly knew her father hated being alone; he felt that if no one saw him, he might not exist. It broke Molly's heart to see him look so sad.

"Dad?"

Mr. Hooper's eyes widened and he turned to the door, his face lifting and his eyes brightening at the sight of his daughter. He fought to sit up in bed, but when he found his arms wouldn't support him, he allowed himself to slump into the pillows behind his back. When he spoke, his voice was gravelly and calm, "Did you sneak me in any good food?"

Molly laughed softly and stepped into the room, taking a plastic blue chair from the corner and pulling it towards the bed to sit on, "No, Dad. You know the doctors have a diet set for you."

Mr. Hooper huffed as his daughter sat down, "Just because I've got a bad ticker doesn't mean I can't enjoy a nice pastrami sandwich."

"That's exactly why you can't have a pastrami sandwich," Molly scolded, reaching into her bag and pulling out a book, "Here, I brought something more productive than food."

Mr. Hooper took the book when Molly handed it to him, and he smiled as he eyed the familiar blue cover, "My Father's Dragon. You brought me a kid's book?"

"You loved reading it to me. I thought maybe it'd be...comforting," Molly smiled weakly as she looked down at her hands, "I can bring something else if you want."

Mr. Hooper shook his head and reached out, beckoning Molly towards him, "Come here you daft bunny."

Molly huffed a laugh as she scooted her chair closer to her father, leaning in so that their eyes were level, "I thought I outgrew that nickname."

"Not to me," Mr. Hooper frowned, taking his daughter's face in his hands, "You know I just love you so much, don't you?"

Molly frowned as she saw tears shimmer in her father's eyes, and she reached up to wrap her hands around his own, "Dad, of course. You don't need to tell me th-"

"I do," Mr. Hooper cut in, his voice a whisper, "I really do. Molly, raising you was quite possibly the hardest thing I've ever done. But you're the only thing in this world that I'm truly proud of."

Molly bit her lip as she felt her own eyes well up with tears, "Dad..."

"I got out of bed in the morning because of you," Mr. Hooper continued, rubbing his thumbs along Molly's cheeks, "Every night when I tucked you into bed, I reminded myself that you were worth it. And I fought every day to make sure I raised you right."

Molly felt her chest heave as tears spilled down her cheeks, and she was grateful her father wiped them away. When she opened her eyes, unsure for herself of when they had closed, Molly's voice was a soft whisper, "Can I ask you a question?"

Mr. Hooper nodded, smiling softly, "You don't have to ask permission."

Molly shifted in her seat, pulling her father's hands from her face and holding them in front of her, "How'd you cope without Mum? What got you through it?"

Mr. Hooper shrugged and looked past Molly's head, his eyes lost in the past, "You were at school when it happened. I refused to call and tell you what happened because I couldn't believe it myself. I feel like if your mother has cancer I would've coped so much better, but a car wreck? It was so fast and sudden that it didn't feel real. That when the clock struck 6:00 she'd be back at home and cooking dinner.

"I didn't want to get out of bed, that's what was the worst. Even when you knocked on the door, I didn't want to come out. I would've been happy to just melt into the mattress and wither away into dust, but I couldn't," Mr. Hooper swallowed hard, pressing his lips together briefly as Molly kept her gaze firmly on his face, "I tried to just pack it away. I got a box and packed all the stuff from our room that belonged to her. I shoved it under the mattress, and I pretended like she didn't exist, at least for a little while.

"But one night, after working late at the office, I came home and found you sitting in front of the fridge," Mr. Hooper' eyes shifted, returning to the present and staring at his daughter, a soft smile on his face, "Your hair was in a messy braid all the way down to your waist, and you were wearing one of your mum's t-shirts, the yellow one that shrunk in the wash after she spilled pasta sauce all over it. You were sitting there, so small and quiet, with your fingers tracing the words on the sticky notes your mum left on the fridge. You just finished tracing 'Love' when you turned and looked at me, with your big brown doe eyes, and I knew I couldn't just forget your mum. I knew I had to pull it together for you."

Molly felt fresh tears threatening to spill from her eyes, but she wiped them away quickly before she choked out a response, "You let me sleep in your room that night. And we went through mum's photo albums, too."

Mr. Hooper nodded, reaching out and brushing a loose strand of hair behind his daughter's ear, "Mmhmm. And the next day we made peanut butter smackers like your mum used to, except they came out horribly burnt and tasting like dust."

The pair laughed, clutching at each others hands as their bodies shook in combined joy and sadness. The memories of the past floating in the air between them.

Molly bit her lip, staring hard at her father and thinking about how this was not so different from what the Holmes boys were feeling. But then she remembered that it was Sherlock, and nothing he did seemed ordinary or appropriate.

"I've lost you, Molly," Mr. Hooper smiled, waving his fingers in front of his daughter's eyes, "C'mon, love. What's got your mind?"

Molly sighed and squeezed her father's hand, "Remember Sherlock? The rude arse I work with who has a paradoxically lovely little boy?"

Mr. Hooper nodded, "Hamfast or Hamlet or something like that. And yes, his wife died, that Rebecca girl from your college. She was so sweet."

"Hamish," Molly corrected, nodding softly, "And yes, but they're not really coping well. Sherlock purged everything about Rebecca. He's pretending like she doesn't exist and I just know Ham is hurting. He misses his mum but he can't even talk about her."

Mr. Hooper shook his head and frowned, "Then that Sherlock fellow is damned fool. He can't let his boy suffer. They'll both end up more hurt than they were at the start."

"What can I do then?" Molly whispered, feeling something akin to the loss she had felt when her mother died.

"Make him realize how much of a fool he's being," Mr. Hooper replied, falling back onto his pillows and holding My Father's Dragon firmly in his hands, "Enough of the sad stuff. How about I read you a chapter or two before you go?"

* * *

><p>As night fell, Sherlock found himself bent over the kitchen table much like he had been in the morning. Yet in the morning, he was merely balancing his checkbook and paying the bills Mrs. Hudson refused to stop bothering him about. While he had paid for the heating and the plumbing and the electricity, Sherlock couldn't pay the rent. He had no money left to spare for food or groceries, much less his cell phone bill whenever it decided to come in the mail. All Sherlock had left was the money out of his pocket.<p>

It was an incredibly worrisome thought.

Sherlock knew that it was because he was lacking cases. No private clients had really come to his door, and Lestrade has apparently been self-sufficient enough to start solving crimes on his own. But if a case didn't come through soon, Sherlock would have to resort to calling his brother, and that was an even more worrisome thought than not being able to pay the rent.

A knock on the door pierced the silence, and Sherlock rose to answer the door, dressing gown billowing behind him. When he pulled back the door and saw Molly standing there, he cocked his head and narrowed his eyes, "You've gone to visit your father, as per usual, and you've already given Hamish his lessons for the week. On top of that, it's nighttime. Why are you here?"

Molly nodded firmly, accustomed to Sherlock's bluntness, and spoke lowly, "I'd like to talk to you about Hamish, actually. May I come in?"

Sherlock shrugged and stepped away from the door, beckoning Molly in. He shut the door behind her and moved back towards the kitchen, stacking the bills together and putting them into a pile on the counter, "Are you expecting tea?"

Molly shook her head, "No, I don't really want to sit and chat. I'm trying to be serious."

Sherlock pressed his lips together at the thought: Molly Hooper being serious. With her petite frame and her mousy hair, Molly was not a person to be seen in a serious light. Kindly, perhaps, or simply quiet, but never serious. He turned and stepped out of the kitchen, moving to the sitting room and settling himself into his chair before beckoning Molly to sit on another.

Molly, however, simply refused to sit or even take off her coat. She simply squared her shoulders and straightened her back before speaking, "You're being an idiot."

Sherlock, uncharacteristically, huffed a laugh and looked up at Molly with a smirk, "I must say that I've never been called that before."

Molly forced herself to meet Sherlock's gaze, her index finger scratching at the inside of her thumb, "I know you're blind to it, but you really are being foolish."

"Enlighten me then," Sherlock replied, holding out his hands, "I'm intrigued."

Molly ceased her scratching and clenched her fist fully before taking a steady breath, her voice firm but considerably softer than it was before, "You can't pretend like Rebecca never lived here. It doesn't matter how you feel. You have to be there for Hamish."

Any trace of amusement from Sherlock's face immediately fell away as his entire demeanor hardened into an impenetrable shell that was all too familiar to Molly. His eyes hardened as he stared at Molly, his voice low and intimidating, "Molly, I wasn't aware that you knew what was best for my son."

Molly flushed and suppressed a shudder, a twinge of fear coursing through her, but it was quickly overpowered by a surge of anger. She clenched her fists even tighter, her knuckles turning white, "Sherlock, he's five years old, almost six. He remembers his mother, he loved his mother, and you act like she was just some insignificant thing."

"Wasn't she?" Sherlock rumbled, watching Molly go still, "She was human, she was flawed, and she is dead. Isn't right to move on and forget about her?"

Molly's mouth hung open, her body trembling from a feeling that was so raw she didn't know if there was a name to describe how wretchedly sickening it was. She stamped forward, her eyes hard but wet with tears and her voice much louder than before, "Are you really so horrid that you're going to pretend you don't miss her?"

Sherlock didn't answer. He felt a brief twinge in his chest before he felt nothing at all. Perhaps it was the final feeling of remorse and regret after his wife's death, or perhaps it was the successful sealing off of his own heart, but Sherlock didn't hesitate when he spoke, "You can't miss the dead."

"You really are a machine, then." Molly whispered before taking a shuddering breath and turning away, wiping away the unshed tears in her eyes as she walked to the door. She couldn't fathom why she had even bothered coming here. Sherlock had packed away the pictures on the mantle, he had refused to even say his wife's name, and he refused to see that his son was suffering in his own self contained silence. As she reached the door and gripped the handle, she glanced over her shoulder at the statue of a man in the chair.

"You're not strong, you know," Molly whispered, noting that Sherlock barely moved or even breathed, "You're not strong enough to deal with loss. You're not strong enough to support yourself, much less your son. Do you think no one has noticed you've packed away every sign of her existence? Do you think no one has noticed that Hamish is shuttering himself away because he doesn't know how to cope? You're supposed to teach him how to cope, Sherlock. All you're doing is teaching him how not to care."

"He'll be safer that way," Sherlock whispered, his head turning to face Molly. Molly passed off the wet glimmer in Sherlock's eye as a trick of the light.

"Hamish deserves better than that," Molly replied as she opened the door, "Hamish deserves to be more than a machine."

Molly stepped out and ended her sentence with a slamming door. The moment she did, she regretted every single thing she said. Sherlock wasn't a machine; he was a scared and lonely man who had only ever used drugs to cope. Now that he was trapped with his emotions he was a ship lost in a storm, and all Molly had done was yell at him. She couldn't go back in, not after all of that. She turned and ran down the stairs, her stomach in her throat as she hailed a cab.

And Sherlock, cold and calculating with the mental dexterity of a finely tuned machine, dabbed at his eyes and decided three nicotine patches and a cigarette would be enough to make him delete everything that had just transpired.

* * *

><p><strong>Yours till the new years,<strong>

**SerendipityDreamer**


	6. Chapter 6

Hamish Holmes wasn't stupid. He had heard his father say as much, that Molly was "lying to him" about his reading abilities. But Hamish was a good actor, he inherited that from his father, so he plastered on a smile and pretended to be excited about practicing his maths. Hamish may not have been as smart as his father, but he wasn't stupid. He knew when he was being lied to, like when his father told him that the pictures of Rebecca hadn't been burned in the fireplace. Hamish knew that his father was burning his bridges, literally. And while he did not know how much of his mother's memory his father had burned away, Hamish knew that he would live the rest of his life never knowing.

Hamish also knew he wasn't deaf. His father may have thought Hamish was asleep, but he was sitting up in bed when Molly came back to 221B late at night, and he had heard what she said. He barely heard his father's responses, but the entire event only served to solidify his growing disdain for his father.

Sherlock Holmes didn't love his wife, and he probably didn't love Hamish either.

Hamish refused to cry. He merely curled up into a ball on top of his bed and forced himself to sleep. He pulled the picture of his mother out from beneath his pillow, and he clutched its ripped and wrinkled face tightly in his hand until slumber loosened his hold.

* * *

><p>Sherlock Holmes awoke to the smell of toast, and he opened his eyes to see his son on his tiptoes in the kitchen putting two more pieces of bread into the toaster. On the plate next to him were two pieces of toast already and a jar of grape jam next to them.<p>

As Sherlock sat up, rubbing his eyes and wondering when exactly he had fallen asleep, Hamish spoke firmly and quickly, "I put your cigarette in the tray like I'm supposed to. You have to put jam on the toast. I'm not allowed to use the knife."

Sherlock grunted softly in response, standing and stretching his back out. It had been a long time since he'd fallen asleep on the chair; it had been a long time since he had fallen asleep period. He padded over to the kitchen, running a hand through his wild curls and focusing his tired eyes on Hamish. The boy was alert and already dressed, the sleeves of his blue jumper pushed up to his elbows. As Sherlock moved to find the utensils, the toaster popped and Hamish put the fresh pieces of toast on top of the others. The boy pulled out a second plate and split the pile in half, leaving two pieces on each plate.

"You're gonna eat all of it," Hamish said, his voice low, "You haven't eaten breakfast in a few days."

Sherlock hummed in agreement, intrigued by his son's clipped tone. He seemed oddly focused, as if he'd made a decision. Sherlock tried to deduce what such a decision might be as he spread jam on each of the four slices of toast.

When the spreading of the jam was done, Sherlock and Hamish sat at the kitchen table which had been cleared the night before, and Sherlock briefly glanced at the stack of bills on the counter as he remembered why the table was uncharacteristically clear. The pair ate in what would normally be seen as uncomfortable silence, but in the current state of the Holmes household such silence was commonplace; such silence suggested in-depth thought.

As Hamish finished his last piece of toast, he sat and waited another 10 minutes for his father to finish his toast. Both of the Holmes boys opened their mouth at the same time, and both of them said something rather different.

"Molly won't be continuing in aiding you with your studies."

"I want to visit Mum's grave."

Two pairs of pale blue eyes widened, and two very different responses came immediately after.

"Absolutely not."

"That's not fair!"

Hamish stood with a huff, his chair clattering behind him as it was pushed quickly back, "Who's going to teach me all of my subjects if Molly isn't?"

Sherlock pressed his lips together, staring down at the crumbs on his plate, "I will find a suitable and authorized tutor to continue your studies. Until then, I will supplement for the rest of your subjects."

"No," Hamish replied, shaking his head, "Just because you and Aunt Molly fought doesn't mean I don't get to have her as a teacher."

Sherlock's head snapped up, his eyes focused sharply on his son, "I'm doing what's best for you, Hamish."

Hamish crossed his arms, his brow furrowed, "Then why doesn't it feel better?"

Sherlock huffed out a breath before rising to his feet, picking up the dishes to put them in the sink, "I'm not going to talk about it any further."

"Then what about me?" Hamish asked, his eyes burning a hole into the back of his father's skull, "Why can't we go visit Mum's grave?"

Sherlock stilled, the plates dropping from his hand and clattering loudly against the metal of the sink. This was Molly's fault, Sherlock decided. Had Molly not come in the middle of the night and argued her foolish points, Hamish would have never come up with such an idea.

As the minutes dragged on and Sherlock remained frozen in place, Hamish frowned and let his arms fall to his sides, his voice less angry but more disappointed, "Aunt Molly was right. You really don't miss her."

Hamish turned around and returned to his room, slamming the door shut behind him. Sherlock watched him leave, and both Holmes boys avoided each other for the rest of the day.

* * *

><p>What should have been a day of silence turned into days of silence. Those days soon stretched into weeks, which quickly culminated to a month. The remaining days of December passed without event, and the arrival of the New Year barely garnered a response. Soft grunts and responsive hums and one syllable answers were shared, but that was the only headway Sherlock and Hamish had made in regard to their communication. As Hamish's sixth birthday grew near, Sherlock grew intentionally more reclusive, ignoring calls from his mother, his brother, and Molly Hooper. Mrs. Hudson, however, was able to squeeze her way in and bake Hamish a cake. Hamish didn't ask for gifts, nor did he acknowledge his birthday until Mrs. Hudson brought him her cake. Hamish's sixth birthday, which he had shown quite a bit of excitement over, passed with little more than a "Thank you, Mrs. Hudson."<p>

Sherlock was so involved in his own seclusion that he didn't have the time to monitor Hamish's. The boy ate and bathed and used the bathroom, but he refused to talk and he refused to leave his room unless strictly necessary.

Towards the end of January, Mycroft called with news of a tutor, a tottering older woman named Mrs. Fennimore. She was expensive in comparison with other tutors Sherlock had researched, but Sherlock simply accepted Mycroft's recommendation. He would never admit to having money troubles, at least not until it truly became a problem.

Sherlock, however, did not have to worry about Mrs. Fennimore's high price, because no more than a week later she announced that she was quitting, and that she did not expect Sherlock to pay her for the rest of the lessons she had not given.

The event sounds entirely mild, but it was in fact the strangest thing that had happened in 221B Baker Street in quite awhile.

Sherlock had just paid the cabbie and was stepping onto the sidewalk in front of his flat when a flushed and oddly charred Mrs. Fennimore came bursting through the door to the street. Her hair was flying out of her normally taut bun, her face was smeared black, and her over-sized purse was dangling off of her arm, but her harsh brown eyes snapped to Sherlock and her thin lips curled into an unspoken nag.

"Mrs. Fennimore," Sherlock managed, but he was quickly cut off by the older woman.

"Your son is a terror in the making, Mr. Holmes. Why in all my years I've never met a more misbehaved child," Mrs. Fennimore wiped a weary hand across her forehead, and the black charring wiped away to reveal her wrinkly pink skin, "I allow the boy to show me one experiment to count towards his science grade, and he nearly blows up the kitchen."

Sherlock's lips curled into a rueful smirk, and Mrs. Fennimore huffed and pointed an accusing bony finger at Sherlock's chest, "You should not find it so amusing, Mr. Holmes. Hamish could have surely killed me, or anyone on this entire block."

"I'm certain Hamish's kitchen experiment could not have destroyed Baker Street," Sherlock replied, reaching out and lowering Mrs. Fennimore's hand from the air, "If it helps, I will pay you extra for today's lesson."

"Oh no," Mrs. Fennimore exclaimed, shaking her head, "I refuse to teach that boy for another moment. I could handle his reclusiveness and his eccentricities and his lack of affection, but I cannot handle murder," she held her hand out as her mouth settled into a resolute frown, "I understand you have paid in advance for a month. I do not expect you to follow through with that payment."

Sherlock nodded and shook Mrs. Fennimore's hand, thanking her softly before hailing a cab and sending the harried old woman on her way. Sherlock sighed as the cab drove off. He pulled a fresh pack of cigarettes out of his pocket and pulled one out to perch it between his teeth before lighting it. The money he would save by terminating Mrs. Fennimore's payment was a blessing, as Sherlock had just returned from Scotland Yard without a single profitable case in hand. Hence why he bought the cigarettes on his way home; feeding an old addiction was far more comforting than the idea of losing everything.

* * *

><p>After Mrs. Fennimore came Ms. Hardy, a bright and bubbly Uni student who was a bit strapped for cash. Ms. Hardy lasted one week longer than Mrs. Fennimore, before she ran from Baker Street with a few premature grey hairs.<p>

After Ms. Hardy came Mr. Baxter, than Mrs. Dooley and after her came Mrs. Lewis. All of them left within a few weeks of meeting Hamish, and none of them lasted longer than a month. Mycroft, who had sent each tutor Sherlock's way, called to say that no more tutors would be coming, because word of mouth had given Hamish the reputation as a brilliant child, but an absolute utter demon who would ruin your love of children.

Sherlock felt an odd sense of pride over Hamish's antics. It was a rather Holmesian trait, to be as antagonizing as possible until a desired end was reached, but Sherlock knew what Hamish wanted, and he refused to give it to him. Sherlock refused to call Molly Hooper and ask her to come and tutor Hamish; he refused to go crawling back to her after everything she had said to him.

Hamish was sitting in his room reading and Sherlock was standing at the window with his eyes focused on the skyline. It was March now, about halfway through the month, and the weather was as dismal as the year's outlook. Boredom was beginning to seep into Sherlock's brain, and a cigarettes and nicotine patches did nothing to stop the wretched grip of nothingness that permeated every crevice of his mind. There was not a case was in sight, and if Sherlock didn't find a tutor soon, he would have to either enroll Hamish in a proper school or handle his education himself.

Sherlock shuddered at the thought. He wasn't blind to the dismal state his relationship with Hamish had fallen into, yet for all of his pride he would admit that he didn't know how to repair it. Hamish wanted to talk about his mother, he wanted to talk about her as if she was still alive. Sherlock wouldn't, couldn't, do such a thing. Hamish needed to learn how to control his emotions. It would serve him better in time. Hamish might not understand now, but he would.

An alien sound pierced the air, a shrill ringing. Sherlock turned to the door, his mind whirring as he tried to catalog the noise. It was not his phone, because while no one ever called him, he also had his ringer on silent. The smoke detector would give off a repetitive shriek, not a short shrill. And the sound had come from the door. Surely it was the doorbell.

_ Doorbell. _

Sherlock bolted across the room, his dressing gown billowing behind him as he threw open the door. The only people who rang the doorbell were clients. As the door opened and a short and nervous woman in a bright yellow coat was revealed to Sherlock, his theories were confirmed. He had a case, and at least one of his problems would be solved.

* * *

><p><em> Doorbell. <em>

Hamish's mood brightened slightly as the distantly familiar chime of the doorbell rang throughout the flat. Hamish couldn't help the smile on his face as he heard his father scramble across the room to open the door for the prospective client. The past few months had posed a rather difficult situation for his father, and Hamish knew that. It wasn't easy for Sherlock to deal with normalcy, so Hamish did his best to make the time spent with him not normal.

It merely fell into place that Hamish hated all of his tutors and that Sherlock needed a distraction. So Hamish did what every Holmes man does best: cause a problem. His actions weren't so much out of kindness as they were out of necessity. Hamish knew that eventually his father would break down and call Molly back, or that Molly would come to 221B on her own. Either situation was preferable to the one he was in, where Hamish had gone a week or two without a new tutor.

Hamish shuddered at the thought. He didn't want his father to end up being his tutor, he was growing to dislike his father a bit more each day, and neither did he want to be enrolled in normal school. Hamish knew he wouldn't get along with the other children. If he couldn't get along with his father, who he had heard was more often than not an overgrown child himself, how was he supposed to get along with actual children?

Hamish shook his head and returned to his book, a small blue thing that Molly had gleefully spoke about when she found the battered copy in Hamish's room: My Father's Dragon. It had belonged to his mother, and that fact combined with Molly's joyful nostalgia made Hamish love the story even more. If only his father were as kind as the one in this book. If only his father wasn't a dragon.


End file.
